


a beautiful, sinuous thing; a terrible, treacherous thing

by maricolous



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Grief/Mourning, Jam, Minor Violence, Multi, Non-Explicit Sex, Predator/Prey, Sea Monsters, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-14 22:45:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19282738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maricolous/pseuds/maricolous
Summary: Driven by grief, James Flint leaves the city behind to become the caretaker of a lighthouse in a small coastal town. But despite his desire for solitude, he finds himself drawn to a local bookshop owner, and haunted by man who seems to have strolled right out of the sea. But Flint may be less willing prey than this mysterious stranger expects.





	a beautiful, sinuous thing; a terrible, treacherous thing

**Author's Note:**

> With accompanying art from the fantastic [ponytailflint](http://ponytailflint.tumblr.com) and [dimplesflint](http://dimplesflint.tumblr.com)!
> 
> You can find Mer's beautiful cover art [here](https://piankart.tumblr.com/post/185713087245/driven-by-grief-james-flint-leaves-the-city)!
> 
> This was the first idea I ever had for a Black Sails fic. It lived in my head as 'the lighthouse au' for like, a year and a half. In the end, it's not quite what I'd originally imagined it would be, but I hope people enjoy what it became!

i.

To her credit, Miranda had been incredibly understanding of the whole thing up until she stepped over the threshold. She’d helped Flint through the whole process of finding the lighthouse and making it his own, just months into mourning Thomas. He needed space, he told her, space to mourn and figure out what to do now. 

She’d been perfectly understanding until she stepped over the threshold.

“You’re forty,” she’s saying now, and Flint knows she’s right but he can’t bring himself to look at her.

Grief has made him very good at hiding. 

“You can’t get away with sleeping on the couch every night anymore,” Miranda continues, sitting on said couch while she lectures him because there’s nowhere else to sit. 

In the small extension that houses the bedroom, there is a neat stack of flat-packed furniture. Bed, dresser, bedside table, desk, chairs. He hasn’t opened any of them in the two weeks since his arrival. And Miranda is right, because she tends to be, only he’s been trying to make bookshelves that will fit the curve of the lighthouse wall and that task has overtaken all else. 

“Imagine how it’ll look to be surrounded by a wall of books all around,” Flint says, turning to her. It’s a mistake.

Miranda’s lips are trembling. “It would be beautiful, of course, but James…” 

“I just need to finish the shelves,” he says, trying to look imploring, but he can’t summon the emotion necessary for it. He’s still so hollow, even now. Being unable to look directly at her makes it all the more difficult. “And then I can do the rest of it.”

“Why don’t you take a break?” Miranda says, gathering herself. “I can make us some tea and we can work together to get the rest of the furniture done. It would be an easy afternoon’s work.” 

It would be funny, the way they grasp for each other and manage to miss, when they’re in the same room. It would be funny, if it wasn’t all so tragic, if their rough edges didn’t keep scraping against each other until they’re both rubbed raw and left with more anger than anything else. 

“I can do it myself,” Flint says, tossing aside his strip of sandpaper and lifting the shelf he’s been working on. It fits snug to the wall. “Ah, there we go…” 

“James, we agreed that this could be good for you,” Miranda tries, trying hard to mask her frustration. “That time and space could help. But that relies on you taking care of yourself too. You’re not doing that. It’s not too late to come back with me in the morning.” 

He doesn’t turn until he’s sure the shelf is secure and finally looks at her. Really looks. She’s as breathtakingly beautiful as always, her dark hair pinned up to keep her cool in the unseasonably warm spring weather, and she’s sad. She’s more than sad, and he knows that it isn’t the loss of Thomas that’s put that look on her face today. It’s him. 

His knees ache when he kneels in front of her but it’s worth it for the way she runs her fingers through his hair, comfort and forgiveness and love. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he means it. “I’m trying. I’ll try harder.” 

“I just don’t want to lose you too,” she says softly, cupping his cheek to make him look up at her. “I thought this move might bring you back to me emotionally, even if you were far away. But this is…I can’t see you like this. You have to take care of yourself. If you can’t do that, I can’t leave you here.” 

The idea of returning to London is so intensely nauseating that he has to swallow against the feeling. “I’ll do better. I promise.” 

Miranda pulls at his shoulders until he settles next to her on the couch instead. “I can’t extend my stay. I have to go back to deal with everything tomorrow. So please, please give me reason to trust you.”

“We can put together the bed,” Flint says. “And go from there. Will that do?” 

“It’s a start.”

They manage to assemble the bed, desk, and two chairs before the sun starts to dip below the horizon. If Thomas was there, he’d have joked about breaking the bed in. But they’re there because Thomas _isn’t_ , and the joke goes unmade. Instead, they climb into Flint’s car and drive the long way around into the village, where they buy fish and chips. 

They eat at the edge of a field overlooking the beach, only a wooden fence between themselves and the cliff’s edge.

“I have to go back on the first train tomorrow,” Miranda says softly, when their rubbish is carefully weighed down to keep it from flying off the cliff. “I won’t ask you to see me off. It’s too much trouble to make you come all the way down here for that.” 

“I would do it if you wanted,” Flint says, squinting down at the beach in the dying daylight. There aren’t many people down there now, the odd person hurrying their dog back to the path up the cliffs as the tide begins to roll in. There’s someone dawdling, letting the water roll over their feet, but he drags his gaze away to look at Miranda. “I don’t mind.” 

“I’ll leave the decision to you,” Miranda says eventually. “Walk me back to the hotel?” 

“It’s a bed-and-breakfast,” Flint grumbles.

It draws an honest laugh out of Miranda as they walk arm-in-arm back into the centre of the village. They part with a single kiss, a ghost of the sort of kisses they shared before, but more than either expected after the day they’ve had. 

“I’ll be fine,” Miranda says, before she goes inside. “And I’m sure you will be too, but please keep in touch.” 

“I will.” Flint draws her in to kiss her forehead. “Have a safe trip tomorrow.” 

It takes effort for them not to draw out their parting more, for Miranda to turn away and go inside and for Flint not to follow. 

On his way back to his car, he stops at the clifftop again and looks down on the beach. He isn’t sure what he expected, but the emptiness of the shore disappoints him somehow.

 

ii. 

Once the overwhelming task of putting up his bookshelves is complete, Flint settles into a routine. He has to make sure the lighthouse is in working order, a condition of his living here, though it’s mostly automated now. He’s a glorified handyman. 

For the rest of the time, there are endless hours to fill. He takes extensive walks along the coastal path, hops on the bus to get back home, spends entirely too much time on the beach even when the weather is bad, but he doesn’t exactly make friends. He chooses buying alcohol at the local produce shop to popping down to the local pub, and the poor soul running the produce shop can barely get a word out of him even though he shows up once or twice a week.

He eats a lot of jam, sampling a different one almost every week, and he’s months in without running out of new ones to try. It’s one of the few things he truly likes about living in the village, along with the surprisingly well-stocked small independent bookshop. It’s the sort of quaint seaside thing that he always missed from his childhood in Cornwall. 

It’s almost depressingly predictable when Flint finally pinpoints the highlight of his weekly excursions in an email to Miranda. Another small bookshop, this one specialising in all tomes secondhand, just off the clifftop promenade. He visits at least once a week, occasionally to sell but mostly to buy, and the shop’s sole employee always seems happy to see him. He’s never seen another soul there, but he doesn’t believe he’s the only person to go in, certainly not at the height of the tourist season. 

“Hello, James,” Madi says, smiling brightly from her seat behind the desk. “Have you brought me treasure today?” 

“Only the pleasure of my company,” Flint says, almost feeling like he can breathe in the company of someone who shines so brilliantly. Madi is completely different from Thomas, but her intelligence and love of books could more than rival his. He knows little about her besides that, but he rarely feels the need to know more, when she’s so open. “Unless you’d like to try the quince jam I bought earlier.” 

Madi makes a face that says she certainly wouldn’t. “The marmalade with the whiskey wasn’t bad, but I don’t know about quince…I once had a truly awful quince pie and it put me off for good.”

“Fair enough,” Flint agrees, unable to help smiling at the expression on her face. “Anything new in?” 

And with those three words, Flint finds himself flipping the sign on the door so they can sequester themselves in the back room to look at the most recent deliveries Madi’s received. They’re slightly beaten paperbacks, more often than not, but she keeps the few antiquarian and collector’s editions aside until he can browse them. 

He’s started quite an impressive Folio Society collection since he moved out to the coast. 

“Three from the Folio Society this week,” Madi reports, proudly presenting the set of books to him and hurrying around a stack of boxes to dig out any other nice finds for him. “And there was another one…I’ll try to find it…” 

“There’s no rush,” Flint assures her, leaning against the desk to examine the books. “Treasure Island…I loved this story as a child. Have you read it?” 

“Mm? No,” Madi says. “I was never too interested in pirates.” 

“Well, I grew up in Cornwall,” he says. “Lot of piracy around there.” 

Madi pops her head out from behind the boxes at that. “Cornwall? And you’re on the opposite coast now? You must enjoy being near the sea. Treasure Island and your fixation on The Odyssey tell me I’m right. You’ve something more interesting in Cornwall than piracy, anyway.” 

“And that would be?” 

“Arthurian legend!” Madi says, and the stack of boxes nearly topples from the force of her enthusiasm. 

Flint is glad that his reflexes haven’t gone quite yet, quickly righting the stack again. “I was never too interested in King Arthur,” he parrots. “I suppose I do like the sea. It’s always strange to be away from open water once you’ve lived with it.”

“Exactly.” Madi shoves an old hardback in his face. “Homer. The Odyssey. You said you couldn’t find your copy after you moved. Did you find it?”

“No,” he admits, perching on the desk and hiding a grimace when it squeaks under his weight. “You held this back for me?” 

“Well, it’s not one of these fancy editions,” Madi says. “But I thought it would be a shame to be without one of your essential reads. I have to open again but take your time back here, okay?”

Flint looks up as she leaves, addressing her back. “What did you grow up with?”

“Oh, you know,” Madi says, gesturing toward the front of the shop without looking back at him. “The sea. Just the same as you.”

 

iii. 

Norfolk isn’t wild, exactly, but it’s more green than he’s seen in the decades he spent in London. It gives him a new appreciation for the world around him, and a spontaneous trip to the Ornithologists Association on a particularly bad day has given him a new hobby. He buys a good pair of binoculars that very afternoon. It gives him something to do now that the summer is over, now just a long hot hazy memory of cleaning up after tourists and grudgingly playing tour guide. 

 _I’m getting old_ , he texts Miranda. _I’m birdwatching._

Miranda laughs at him when they talk later in the day and he soaks up the sound of it, as warm and beautiful as it always was. He can’t bring himself to return to London even for a day, but she meets him in Norwich or visits for weekends when she can. 

 _This morning, it took me a minute to remember the sound of Thomas’ laughter_ , he types after they’ve hung up. He doesn’t send it. Instead, _good night, Miranda_.

And so. Birdwatching. 

There aren’t that many species on his particular stretch of the coast but he climbs up to the top of the lighthouse whenever he can, especially as the weather cools and the lighthouse cottages are left vacant for the off-season. He wraps up warmly and brings a mug of coffee up, and he sits behind the railing around the light, looking along the cliffs and beach for any birds. He occasionally does more people watching than birdwatching, but he tries not to think about that. He ignores the loneliness gnawing at his insides -- alleviated only by his weekly trips for jam and books -- and the occasional wave of frenzied need to be somewhere else he experiences when he drives to Norwich or the other villages.

He’s on the lookout for the odd, off-season fulmar when he first sees the man. 

The tide is rolling in, as it’s wont to do in the evenings. It’s not high enough to deter walkers, but the brisk sea breeze is, and even the most stalwart dog owners seem to be favouring the coastal path on the cliffs for today. Flint would certainly do the same if he had a dog, but he hasn’t the temperament for a pet, not right now. 

He finds himself briefly distracted by a man walking a truly astounding number of black dogs across the green between the lighthouse and the nearby housing development. The locals kids tend to offer dogwalking services to the long-term summer tourists, but it’s October now, and he suspects the pack of dogs belong to the man. Once the pack of dogs crests the hill back to the coastal path, he turns back to the beach and the sight that greets him through the lenses almost makes him drop the binoculars off the side of the lighthouse. 

There’s a man on the beach, standing nude in the rising tide. He doesn’t move, doesn’t even shiver, as the waves roll higher and higher up his thighs. It isn’t simply this oddity that sends a chill down Flint’s spine. At another point in life, he may have been completely distracted by the way the man’s long curls cling wetly to his chest and arms, may have turned his gaze away in shame or modesty. But the man is looking at him. It’s impossible. Flint has looked up to his home on his own walks along the beach before and barely made out the silhouette, especially in the dying light of evening. There’s no way for someone to look up and _see_ him, and yet he finds that this is the case.

The man is staring right at him with storm-dark eyes, and he seems to realise that Flint is looking back, and he smiles, with a mouth full of sharp, sharp teeth. Flint lowers the binoculars to squint down at the beach, sees nothing, raises the binoculars again. 

The man is gone.

The words to describe the incident sit on the tip of his tongue all evening as Miranda tells him about her terrible neighbours and their new baby. He never says them. There’s no need for her to worry, after all.

 

iv. 

Flint has almost forgotten about the man on the beach when he sees him again, standing between two buildings at twilight, a cigarette in hand. He’s clothed this time, though the shirt he’s wearing is open so far as to be pointless despite the crisp autumn chill, with his curly hair pulled up off his neck in an unexpectedly complicated twist, and he winks when he makes eye contact. By the time Flint crosses the road to the alley, he’s gone.

He’s browsing the fruits outside the local produce shop when Flint goes to buy a new jar of jam, except that Flint turns to speak to him and he’s simply not there, though Flint could have sworn he was right in front of the apples. He’s on the other side of a table in the town’s main bookshop, smiling sharply when Flint looks up from a particularly interesting book on the historical sites of the county, and he’s gone when Flint stumbles back against another table and ruins a whole display. He’s in front of Flint at the chip shop, Flint admiring the curve of his small ear and the graceful slope of his neck in a way that he hasn’t felt able to do since Thomas’ death, and he grins over his shoulder and Flint bolts at the realisation of who it is. 

Miranda demands Flint visit her in Norwich for the weekend and he books himself a week at the cheapest bed-and-breakfast he can find. The man is blissfully absent for that week, in the physical sense. He makes regular appearances in Flint’s dreams every night, and Flint always finds himself waking up hard, in a way he didn’t think could happen anymore. He can’t decide if he wants the dreams to stop or if he wants them to go on forever. 

“Are you sure you’re quite alright?” Miranda asks on Friday night, meeting him for dinner to kick off their weekend. 

“It’s been a difficult few weeks,” Flint says. He’s tried hard not to lie to her but he lies a little bit now, as indirectly as he can. “Winters are hard for me. It’ll be the first without Thomas, and...”

“Oh, James,” she says softly. “If you need company, please call me. I know I can’t make you come back home, but we could go somewhere. Get away from work and the lighthouse. Someone else could care for it for a few weeks, I’m sure.” 

Miranda holds his hand on top of the table and Flint clings to it until their food arrives and they need to use both hands to eat.

The numbness of grief over Thomas has started to give way, but all he can feel is the cold ache of terror in his stomach. He’d felt adrift without Thomas every morning until he’d dedicated himself to lighthouse maintenance, but this strange and monstrous man in the village has left him unmoored in a completely different way. 

He doesn’t tell Miranda that he’s afraid to trust himself. She might drag him back to London, or worse, and it shakes him to think that he would rather handle the fear that he’s losing his mind than go back to the place the three of them called home for years.

She does wrap him in the tightest hug she can on Sunday afternoon, when he’s set to drive back to the village and she’s packed up to go to the train station. 

“Next month, I’ll take some time off and come visit you for a week. What do you think?” she asks, promising to be his anchor as she always does.

“That would be lovely.” Flint kisses her forehead and sends her off. He swears to himself that once this is done, once the winter is over, he’ll be as much of an anchor for her. He’s let her do too much of the emotional heavy-lifting for too long. 

He only hopes it won’t be too late. 

As it transpires, however, what feels the breaking point comes a week later. 

Flint is in Madi’s shop, one of the few places he still feels at ease. Madi has asked him what’s wrong several times over the last month, but he can never explain it to her, even when she looks at him earnestly and says, _you can tell me anything, I won’t judge_. It’s been easy enough to brush off and pretend that it’s only the oncoming winter weather. The coastal winds are already biting enough to be bundled into a scarf and hat most days, even if single-digit and double-digit weather are still at war with each other. 

He pulls a book of ghost stories off the shelf and catches a glimpse of a mischievously twinkling dark eye on the other side. The book lands with an impressive thud on the floor as he rounds the shelf to find the man stood there.

“Hello,” the man says, his teeth practically glinting in the muted orange light of the halogen bulb above. 

“James?” Madi calls, her footsteps creaking closer from the front of the shop. 

“It’s fine,” Flint calls back. He doesn’t mean to take his eyes off the man, now that they’re truly face to face, but he glances away for just the barest second. And he’s gone.

Madi stops at the end of the aisle. “What happened?” 

Flint turns to her and the calmness of his own voice shocks him. “I think I may be losing my mind.” 

“Well, then,” Madi says. “I think perhaps a tea break is in order.”

She flips the sign on the door and locks it, pulls down the blind so no one can see in. Flint sets out their favourite cups on the front desk and drags up one of the step ladders to sit on while Madi pours tea from her thermos. She doesn’t press him for details as they sip in silence and even brings out a bottle of whiskey, pouring a generous glug into their cups. 

It takes ten minutes for Flint to feel steady enough to tell Madi what’s been happening, and another five to feel calm enough to say it coherently.

“Oh, how...odd,” Madi says, holding her mug to her chest. 

“That’s certainly one word for it,” Flint agrees, his eyebrows furrowed as she watches her.

Madi sighs. “You know how places like this can be. I’m sure you grew up with folklore about the sea, no?” 

“Spirits and things like that aren’t real, Madi. Do you believe in those kinds of things?”

“Some things are more real than others,” Madi says quietly. “Sometimes, the sea feels more vast than you can imagine. You must feel the pull of it. You grew up in Cornwall, and you fled to the Norfolk coast when you needed to get away from city life. It’s not coincidence, it’s calling. You feel it just as I do.” 

“The sea is comforting,” Flint admits, frown still in place, trying to follow the turn that their conversation has taken and trying not to feel injured by her comment. “But it’s dangerous too. Less so on this coast, but even so. It’s just familiarity. Not fate.” 

“Calmer doesn’t equal less dangerous,” Madi says, smiling a little. “I’m sorry, I suppose I just miss home at times like this, and I like to believe fate brought me as close to it as I can get. I didn’t mean to distract from your problem. Look, if you’re so worried, perhaps you should see a doctor about this. All I can do is put whiskey in your tea and sell you books.” 

Flint slumps in his chair, disheartened. “If you had to make a guess, what would you say it is? What’s happening?” 

Madi shrugs but her gaze is focused past him and he turns around, half-expecting to see the man. There’s no one there, save for the closed door. 

“Maybe the sea is trying to say something to you,” she says quietly. 

“Well it’s got a fucked up way of doing it,” Flint groans, rubbing a hand over his face. He feels, suddenly, like he needs to move. The cosy shop no longer feels comforting, but instead claustrophobic. It feels like the walls are moving in slowly, trapping him here. “I think I should go. Rest might do me some good.” 

“Perhaps you’re right,” Madi agrees, though her frown says something else entirely. 

She stands at the same time he does, their mugs left on her desk as she lets him out. She doesn’t raise the blind on the door when she shuts it behind him, and he stands there as the lock tumbles into place again.

He’s hesitant to leave, feeling like he’d misstepped somewhere in the conversation. He’s still debating whether he should knock on the door to apologise, when he hears her on the other side of the door.

“What do you think you are you doing here?” Madi asks, the frustration in her voice clear. “What are you trying to do?”

Flint recoils, expecting the door to swing open, for Madi to be standing on the other side with furious blazing eyes at his continued presence, but it doesn’t happen. Unbidden, he thinks of the man standing between the bookshelves, and it pushes him into motion. He walks back to the lighthouse along the clifftops, leaving his car behind in the parking lot near the train station. He can come back for it tomorrow. 

Not once on his walk back to the lighthouse does he see the man. It should be a relief but he feels oddly abandoned instead.

 

v. 

Over the next two weeks, Flint only sees the man twice in brief glimpses. Once, smoking outside the local pub, though no one seems to notice him there. The other, dragging himself out of the mostly sunken remains of an old wartime pillbox on the beach. In both cases, the man is gone as soon as he blinks. He tries not to think about what it means that he dreams of the man every night instead, and wakes up achingly hard after each dream. 

He’s about decided that the winter won’t be all too bad when Miranda calls. 

“James, there’s a storm on the way,” she says, by way of greeting. 

“Hello, I missed you too,” Flint says. He’s heard about the storm, of course, and has stocked up on food in preparation. He’s about ready to start securing the lighthouse as well. “What about the storm? We’ll be fine.”

“I mean, the weather advisory is so bad…” 

It takes him longer than he would be willing to admit to understand what she’s trying to say to him. 

“You’re not coming,” Flint says. He can feel petulance stealing into his tone, even when he tries to stop it. “That’s what you mean.”

“I’m sorry but I think it would be better to wait it out. I will come to you as soon as it’s safe,” Miranda says, voice steely with determination in the face of a possible tantrum. “But we’ve already lost so much this year and I never did like driving in bad weather.” 

“I know,” Flint assures her, trying to strangle the rising tendrils of  illogical anger and betrayal before they can take root more than they already have. “I’m going to batten down the hatches soon, anyway. I’ll call you if service doesn’t completely go.” 

“Yes, alright,” Miranda says. “I’ll talk to you later. I love you.”

“I love you. I’ll see you soon.” 

He knows should stay at the lighthouse, make sure the light can survive anything the storm throws at it, but hanging up on Miranda leaves him restless and desperate to move, so he finds himself driving down to Madi’s shop. He parks in front of it. There’s no one else daring to drive with the wind already picking up. Miranda may have been right about the weather advisory. The door is shut, the blind pulled and the sign turned to ‘closed’. He knocks anyway. 

The door swings open like Madi was expecting him, but the hopeful look in her eyes fades when she sees him, replaced by confusion. 

“James? What are you doing down here?” 

“I needed company, I’m sorry, I know you’re closed, but I just need to be with someone right now,” Flint says in a rush. “Is that...I can go. If you’re busy.” 

“No, that’s fine,” Madi says, still somewhat bewildered as she steps back to let him in.

“Would you like to come for dinner?” Flint asks, pacing restlessly between the shelves. “I’m a decent cook. And I could drive you back, so you won’t be stuck with me if the storm blows in suddenly.” 

Madi reaches out and holds both of his hands, stopping him in his tracks. “I can’t. I need to be here.” 

“The shop is closed,” he says incredulously. “What could you possibly need to do? You’re always here.”

“Because it’s where I need to be,” Madi repeats, with more patience than he deserves. “Which is none of your business. I’m only telling you this because you’re my friend and I care about you. I need to be here. I _can’t_ go with you.” 

Flint tries to free his hands but Madi grips them harder, surprisingly strong for how small she is. “I will let you stay here until you’re calm enough to go back home. And I will see you after the storm, and we can speak then. But right now, I need you to let me just be here.” 

“Fine,” he says. “Fine.” 

He grasps the anger and betrayal rising in his mind again, and cuts them off at the root. There’s no need for him to take out his frustrations on Madi, no more than there was to take them out on Miranda. 

“I need to secure the lighthouse,” he adds. “The storm will be here tonight.” 

“Maybe even earlier,” Madi says, pulling the blind aside to look out at the overcast sky. “It might be wise not to linger here.”

She wishes him a safe journey when he steps outside, the wind immediately setting to whipping his hair around his face.

The only good thing about driving is that the road takes him inland, behind the shelter of the hills behind the cliffs. The car only rocks a little when he drives on a small stretch of unsheltered road, but he has to brace himself against the wind by the time he makes the dash from his car to the lighthouse. 

The cabins are secure enough, he’d locked them down tightly as soon as the season ended, but the lighthouse has been more open than not. He secures the shutters one by one, making his way up from the extension he sleeps in all the way to the maintenance level just below the light. It’s a simple enough process, leaving him with a decent amount of time to get the light secured and ensure it will work even through the worst of the storm. 

Over the better part of a year, checking the mechanisms has gone from an excuse to wallow in his memories of Thomas to feeling almost therapeutic. There’s something soothing about the routine of it all now, that lets him think of Thomas without it wrenching his heart out. It’s started to feel like part of the healing process. Enough so that he’s practically in a good mood by the time he starts cleaning the glass around the light, humming quietly while he wipes it down until it’s practically sparkling. 

That good mood dies with a sputtering gasp when he happens to look down, on his way to the stairs back down into the tower. He catches a glimpse of something at the bottom of the lighthouse and looks again, harder, ignoring the splatter of raindrops against his face as the storm finally arrives. 

There’s a man at the door. Not just any man, either. 

“You’re imagining it,” Flint tells himself as he hurries down the stairs and locks the hatch above him. He repeats this to himself until it’s his mantra, putting away his tools and double-checking the hatches as he winds down the stairs. “There’s no one there.” 

But there is. He steps onto the ground floor to the sound of persistent knocking. It’s not frenzied, but steady, just loud enough to be heard over the rain beginning to pour upon the lighthouse in earnest. He stares at the door for a few minutes, but the knocking continues. It doesn’t stop until he unlocks and opens it. 

The man from the sea is on the other side, grinning with all his sharp teeth and sparkling sea blue eyes. His hair hangs around his face, his thin shirt clinging to him as the rain splashes onto him. 

“As you can see,” the man says, with a far more human voice than Flint had ever expected, despite hearing him speak in Madi’s shop so recently. “As you can see, the storm is upon us, and I’ve nowhere to stay. Would you be so kind as to give a stranger a place to lay his head for the night?” 

“Yes,” Flint says, stepping back without a moment’s hesitation, letting him in. This could be the death of him, but he’s so very curious. “Of course. Come in.”

 

vi. 

The man changes right there at the little dining table when Flint offers him a change of clothing. Flint can’t stop himself from stealing glances when something shimmers in his peripheral vision, but everything looks perfectly normal when he looks directly at him. It’s all too long and too wide but the man looks quite pleased as he sits and rolls up his sleeves, his own wet clothing sitting in a pile next to the table. His bare toes curl against the floor, and Flint could almost swear one of his feet seems to ripple with the movement, like water in motion. 

At a loss for anything else to do, Flint picks up the pile and drapes the clothing over the railing of the stairs to dry.

“Do you have a name?” he asks, turning back to the man. 

“Oh,” the man says, blinking as though confused by the question. He casts his gaze around the room, landing on Flint, before he answers. “Yes. Silver.” 

“Silver,” Flint repeats slowly.

“Silver,” Silver says again, nodding. “That’s me. That’s my name.” 

“Okay, then. Are you hungry, Silver? I was about to have dinner,” Flint says. He has the sense that he ought to be more wary, the hair on the back of his neck has been prickling since he let Silver in, but he can’t bring himself to feel the fear that his mind suggests he ought to feel. 

“I’m _starving_ ,” Silver says, smiling widely, like he’s sharing a joke with Flint. “What’s on the menu?” 

“Bread and jam, mostly. It’s the most perishable,” Flint says, emptying a loaf of bread onto a cutting board and picking one of his jars of jam to go with it. “How do you feel about rhubarb and apple jam?” 

“I’ve never had it before,” Silver says, eyeing the jar when Flint sets the board on the table between them. “Is it good?”  
  
“Try it.” Flint hands him a spoon, though it takes Silver far too long to actually take it. 

Silver relaxes once the spoon is in his grasp and scoops out a large spoonful of jam, shoving it into his mouth. “Oh, it’s good,” he says. “Very sweet.”

“That would be because you just ate a whole spoonful of it,” Flint says, more amused than he probably ought to be. “I only meant for you to take a little -- no, it’s fine, really, don’t spit it back out.” 

Silver stops, about to spit the jam back into the spoon, looking a little bit guilty. 

“You’re an odd one,” Flint says, sitting and slathering jam onto one of his slices of bread.

Silver snorts, eyes wide and bright with surprise and delight. He seems less like a cat stalking its prey now that they’re face to face instead of meeting in the oddest of places around town. “That’s a word for me, yes.” 

They eat together in silence for a while, Silver’s gaze never quite wavering as he watches Flint across the table. Flint fights the urge to squirm under his stare, instead staring back defiantly. It must be the right move, because it makes Silver smile again. 

“You’re an odd one as well,” Silver admits. “What’s your name?”

“Flint,” Flint says automatically. It may as well be true, for all that Miranda and Madi use his given name. He thinks of himself as Flint more than anything else, after all these months of trying to fill in the space in his heart that Thomas’ absence left. Thomas, who’d jokingly started calling him that after a beach holiday when Flint had spent more time in the water than under their beach umbrella and had burnt horribly as a result. Thomas, who’d gotten the name from a story that Flint had told him about a mysterious man from the sea, passed down from his grandfather.

Silver’s grin widens, sharpening into something predatory again. “Oh, no it isn’t. You stole that name.”

“I didn’t _steal_ it,” Flint says defensively. “It’s only a name.” 

“Names mean things and names belong to people, and you stole that name,” Silver insists. “You’re a thief.” 

Flint stares him down, defiant as ever. “Well then, it takes one to know one. You stole the name Silver, I think.”

Silver laughs. “Oh, you are clever. Shall we make this into a game? Why are you here?” 

“I needed to be alone,” Flint says. It’s all the truth he can dare to part with. “Why are you here?” 

“I was tired of being alone,” Silver counters, absolutely delighted by his own cleverness. “Why did you need to be alone?” 

And they continue in this way, piercing questions and half-truth answers traded as they eat their way through the jar of jam on the table. Flint tries not to stare when Silver sticks a finger into the jar, wiping along the sides and then sucking the jam off his skin. Silver grins around his finger, the corners of his eyes wrinkling in a way that would be endearing if he didn’t give off the feeling that he might pounce on Flint at any moment. 

“I’m getting quite tired,” Flint eventually concedes. “You can sleep in the library.”

“The library?” Silver asks, freezing where he’s taken to picking up the breadcrumbs with one finger. 

“Come, I’ll show you,” Flint says, standing. 

He takes Silver back into the main lighthouse and gestures to the couch, nestled between two curving sets of bookshelves. “The library. It should be comfortable enough for the night.” 

Silver hums, wandering over the shelves to look at the books. He caresses their spines so reverently that Flint is disconcertingly reminded of Madi. “And you?” 

“I’ll be asleep in my room,” Flint says. “Knock if you need anything. I’m a very light sleeper.”

Silver glances back at him, lips twitching with amusement. “Noted. Good night, Mr. Flint.” 

“Good night, Mr. Silver.”

Flint makes sure to lock and latch his bedroom door once he’s sequestered himself. He may be stupid enough to let a predator into his home. He’s not stupid enough to leave himself defenseless, so he wedges a kitchen knife under his mattress. Just in case. 

Even if Silver gets in, he won’t be left defenseless.

 

vii. 

He sleeps uneasily, when the steady crash of the storm outside finally lulls him to sleep. In his dreams, Silver is everywhere he turns.

He’s got a hand around Flint’s throat, just holding it gently, and their bodies are pressed together as close as can be. Silver’s bare skin is cool against his, a relief, because Flint feels like he’s burning up on the inside. It’s hell, being able to recall how beautiful Silver is nude, simply from seeing him that first time on the beach and changing at the kitchen table only hours earlier, the definition of his muscles and, worst of all, having had enough of a glance on the second occasion that he can even dream of the length of Silver’s cock, hard against his own.

The moment Silver finally gets a hand on him, he snaps awake, and finds the real Silver standing over him. He’s bent so low that his hair forms a curtain of curls around both their faces and his unrelenting smile slips away for the briefest moment, replaced by wide eyed shock. 

“Well, this is awkward, isn’t it?” Silver says, plastering his smile back on. “If you’d just stayed asleep, this would have been very painless for you. I just want you to know that. Most people sleep right through this part of things.” 

“This part of things being death, I assume,” Flint says, putting all he can into steadying his voice when it threatens to shake. “I did say I was a light sleeper.” 

“Yes, and you’re a human. You lot lie all the time.” Silver finally straightens up enough for Flint to sit up and lean back on his hands. “You are awfully calm, though. Maybe you’re not entirely human.”

“I’m human enough,” Flint says, fingers curling around the side of the mattress, feeling for cool steel.

“That is true,” Silver agrees. “I don’t suppose you’ll simply sit back and let me have what I want, will you? You’re going to make me fight for it.” 

“I haven’t had much fight in me of late,” Flint says, shrugging, but his whole body twitches with surprise when Silver slides onto his lap.

He can’t do much but stare as Silver leans in close, sliding his large hands into Flint’s hair. All he can do is sit there, fingers wrapped tight around the side of the mattress as Silver bares his teeth in the most predatory smile yet. Silver leans in closer, closer, closer, using his grip on Flint’s hair to pull his head back until his throat is exposed to Silver’s teeth. It’s so close to his dream that he wonders for one brilliantly feverish moment if he’s really awake.

“Then I will take what I want and it will be very painful for you,” Silver says, breath hot against Flint’s skin.

Flint waits until the curtain of Silver’s hair is in the way, then draws his hand up from behind the mattress, pressing the sharp point of his knife to Silver’s stomach and relishing the way he flinches from the cold, not quite falling off Flint’s lap but leaning back to stare at the blade. Flint presses it closer, feels it breach both fabric and skin and takes in the way Silver’s expression tightens with pain. 

“I don’t know how to kill you, but I’m sure this will hurt,” Flint says, grinning as sharply as he can. Silver may be a predator, but Flint is no kind of prey. “I have no qualms about causing you pain.” 

“Oh, you are an odd one,” Silver says hoarsely, staring down at the sudden bloom of red on Flint’s white shirt. “Keeping a knife under your bed is a very paranoid thing to do.” 

“I’m a very paranoid man, after the shit you’ve put me through. Now you can back off or I’m going to stab you,” Flint says, with far more conviction than he feels. He’s no stranger to violence, not with the short temper he works so hard to control. But actually killing someone, even someone whose nature is beyond his comprehension, that isn’t something he can do.

“Oh, very well,” Silver says. He stands and looks down at Flint with an odd look in his eyes, almost like he’s really getting a look at him for the first time. “I think,” he says slowly, almost placating, “that we can find a way for both of us to be happy. You put the knife down, we can sit down and talk. You want answers, don’t you? I can give you answers. And I can give you purpose. I love the lost ones, the one who would be missed but whose deaths are predictable. I thought you would be one of those. And you certainly are lost, aren’t you? No, I’m still speaking, just listen. You’re lost but you haven’t given up. You’re burning with the desire to live, despite whatever has driven you to your solitude. I may have a use for that. So why don’t we have a chat outside? I promise I won’t bite again, unless you ask very nicely.” 

It’s probably a trick, Flint thinks. Silver has said so much in one go that he can barely wrap his head around it all. They’ve done more than enough talking, haven’t they? 

“Fine,” he says, at a loss for any other response. If he can put off his death a little longer, he might be able to think of something to do. “We can talk in the kitchen. But I’m keeping the knife.”

 

viii. 

The odd cameraderie of their jam-based dinner doesn’t return when they return to the kitchen table, Flint holding the knife on top of the table and Silver tilting his chair to balance on its back legs. Neither has spoken since they sat and the silence is broken only by the ticking of Flint’s clock and the howling storm outside, both waiting for the other to go first.

Try as he might, Flint can’t drag his gaze away from the bare skin of Silver’s collarbone and shoulder where Flint’s shirt almost slides off him. Whenever he tries, he spots the bloody patch on the shirt and looks up again. As dangerous as Silver is, he looks so small and harmless in this moment. 

Silver is the one to crack, dropping his chair back onto all four legs. “So,” he says. “I’m sure you have questions. And I thought, since you’re holding the knife, maybe you should be the one asking the questions.” 

Flint says nothing. 

“No?” Silver says. “No questions? You know, Madi was very much against me devouring you, but you’re not making a great case for yourself. Like, at all. Being attractive isn’t enough to keep you alive. Everyone I kill is beautiful.” 

“Madi?” Flint asks, straightening up. “What about Madi?” 

“I thought that might get your attention,” Silver snorts. “Yes, Madi. But that’s the wrong question. We’re not ready for that part of the conversation yet.”

Flint glares and returns to his almost sullen silence. 

Silver seems to find it amusing, if his barely contained laughter is anything to go by. He leans into the table and grins when Flint’s gaze is inevitably drawn to the skin revealed when the shirt gapes. “I tried to kill you and you still want me. You’re so strange. Has anyone ever told you?” 

Flint tries to increase the ferocity of his glare. 

“Oh, come on. We’re not going to get anywhere if you don’t ask your questions. I know you have them. Ask me. Ask me what kind of horrible abomination I am.” 

“I don’t think you’re an abomination,” Flint says immediately. “You’re inhuman, but that doesn’t mean you’re a monster.” 

“I believe people have called me a sea monster before,” Silver says mildly. “It’s a good thing you’re handsome, actually. You’re taking a very long time to get to the point.” 

“Fine, what are you?” Flint asks, exasperated despite the gravity of the situation. 

“I’m a sea monster,” Silver says, chipper. At Flint’s next glare, he sighs. “Okay, I’m a sea spirit. A soul claimed by the ocean when I drowned. Does that help?” 

“Then what do you need with me?” Flint asks. 

“Even spirits need to eat sometimes. I admit, I do it more out of necessity than pleasure,” Silver concedes, hands moving in vague gestures as he speaks. “But it gets boring sometimes. Your knife would hurt me, but you’re right that it wouldn’t kill me. Only one thing can kill me and I’m not going to tell you that.” 

“I’ll figure it out. Why me?” Flint taps the knife against the table, fingers itching to fidget. 

“I told you, I like the lost, lonely ones,” Silver says. “You live up here all by your lonesome. You’re a very sad, very lonely man. You should be an easy target for me. But somehow you aren’t. I guess Madi must have seen it because she was very upset that I was following you around. I’m a little bit sorry for that, by the way.” 

Flint raises an eyebrow and watches in muted disbelief as Silver pouts.

“I am. I can omit and things like that but I can’t lie outright like you can,” Silver says. “Ask your next question.”

“What were you going to do if I didn’t let you in?” Flint asks.

Silver shrugs. “I would have gone back to sea and waited for my next chance. It’s lucky that you’re so very curious.” 

“I believe in facing my fears. Tell me about Madi.” 

“Oh, you would want to know, wouldn’t you…” Silver sighs. “Do you remember that I said I might have a use for you?” 

“Vaguely,” Flint says. It was lost somewhere in that initial torrent of words, he thinks. 

“This is really Madi’s thing and I don’t think she’d want me to tell you, but given the circumstances…” Silver flops back into his chair. The red spot on his shirt blossoms wider where the cut on his stomach is still bleeding. “Madi is like me. She’s a sea spirit too, but she’s older. More powerful. Or she would be, if some bastard hadn’t anchored her to the land. She can’t leave and that’s… it’s my fault.” 

“Explain,” Flint says, frowning as he tries to put together the puzzle of odd things Madi has said in the time he’s known her. “When she kept talking about the sea…” 

“She was trying to tell you without saying it,” Silver says. “She can’t leave the shop. They bound her to it. Do you know, aside from you, she only ever sees summer tourists. Even the people selling her books have never met her. It’s a cushy prison, but it’s a prison.”

“Where are you going with this?” Flint asks, impatient. 

Silver makes a face. “Well, you see, a willing soul could trade places with her. I’m willing, obviously, but if I’m stuck there instead, and she’s free, our positions are reversed, but ultimately unchanged. Human magic is so fucking tricky, there are so many rules...and who would do that to a sea spirit? It’s malicious, is what it is…”

“You want me to replace her. You want me to be stuck there,” Flint says, realisation dawning as he listens to Silver ramble about how horrible humans are. 

“You wouldn’t be!” Silver says. “You’re human, the rules don’t apply to you in the same way. You could take her place without being trapped. You just have to be...willing.” 

Flint folds his arms over his chest, careful of the knife. “I’d need to think about it. I can’t just abandon the lighthouse.”

“Oh, please,” Silver sighs. “You’re basically at the shop all the time. You could do your work here and still have time to be at the shop.” 

“I’m not a people-person,” Flint says. “And I care deeply for Madi, but I have no reason to think you’re telling the truth.” 

“Just talk about books. It’s not like you aren’t obsessed with them,” Silver says, gesturing to the doorway into the lighthouse proper. In the dark, the bookshelves curving along the wall stare back at them. “You have quite the collection, and Madi says you’re always buying more. Everything in the shop would be yours if you didn’t want to sell it…I wouldn’t bother lying about this. It doesn’t benefit me. Killing you would.” 

“Couldn’t you just, I don’t know, kill whoever did it?” Flint asks. “Instead of me?” 

“No,” Silver sighs, looking disappointed by Flint’s response. “That person is long dead, but it’s a binding beyond death. Only a willing soul can free her. And you, well, you love her in your own way, don’t you? Wouldn’t that help?” 

“That day, in the shop, she was speaking to _you_ when I left…” Flint says abruptly.

“Oh, yes. I hid when Madi noticed your little panic,” Silver agrees, looking almost sheepish for the first time. “She knows all my hiding spots, though…like I said, she didn’t like that I wanted to eat you.”

Flint drums his fingers on the table. “I’d like to talk to Madi before I make any decisions.”

“That’s fine. We can go in the morning,” Silver says. “She’ll be asleep now.” 

Flint nods and stands, making his way to the counter. He slides the knife into his knife block. “I suppose you’d better come back to bed with me.” 

“You’re trusting me not to eat you this time?” Silver asks, looking gleeful as he gets up to follow Flint to the bedroom, only wincing a little when the movement tugs at the cut on his stomach. 

Flint shuts the door behind them. “Try it and I’ll strangle you. But you were right. I still want you, if you’re interested.” 

Five minutes later, Flint presses his tongue to the cut on Silver’s stomach, tasting copper on his tongue. 

“What the fuck are _you_?” Silver hisses, lifting himself on his arms to stare down at Flint. “A fucking vampire?” 

Flint licks the cut once more, grins up at Silver, and slides his mouth down until he can get it on Silver’s cock. He doesn’t deign to answer Silver’s question. It’s a bold ask from someone who’d been trying to use his teeth to rip out Flint’s throat not an hour before. 

“Oh,” Silver gasps. “Okay.”

And even later, he grips Silver’s calf when he slides into him, the skin strangely cool under his fingers, and it’s only the tight heat of Silver clenching around him that distracts him from the way Silver’s leg practically shimmers like moonlight on the waves where he touches it.

 

ix. 

The storm is still raging in the morning, but Flint and Silver throw on Flint’s strongest waterproof coats and head out anyway. Silver revels in the storm, skipping unevenly ahead of Flint as they wind down the coastal path, while Flint straggles behind, trying not to get blown over too close to the edge. It’s a lovely walk on a warm spring day, and awful on a regular winter’s day, but the cold and wet and wind make it perilous during a winter storm. Even Silver seems to increasingly wobble and lose his balance as they get closer to the town. 

The village is completely silent, water flowing in torrents along the side of the streets and down the ramps that lead down to the beach. There aren’t even people peeking out between their curtains, though Flint feels like there ought to be. Two monsters are walking through their town and the townsfolk are none the wiser. 

Madi opens the door on Silver’s second knock. “Get in. Get those coats off, don’t drip on my books.” 

“Were you expecting us?” Silver asks, leaning in and feigning nonchalance when Madi turns away from him despite having to catch his balance on a shelf. His kiss lands on empty air. 

“I had a feeling,” Madi says, hanging their coats on the stand next to her desk. “James, I’m glad to see you whole.”

“He stabbed me!” Silver says cheerfully, pulling his shirt up to show her where his stomach has been bandaged. 

“It was a flesh wound,” Flint says, looking at Madi nervously. 

Madi, for her part, sighs and pulls out her bottle of whiskey. “Do I want to know what’s happened?” 

“He tried to kill me,” Flint says defensively. 

“I did,” Silver chimes in. “So he threatened to stab me and then he did!” 

“No, I cut you and then threatened to stab you.”

“That’s not how I remember it.” 

Madi stares at them and sinks into her chair, uncorking the whiskey. Silver is quick to sit in the other chair, stretching his legs out almost carefully. He smiles charmingly at her but she’s unmoved. 

Flint accepts the whiskey when she offers it to him, and they both sit in silence while Silver tells his version of the night’s events. Flint makes pointedly annoyed faces whenever Silver embellishes it but Madi sits through the tale in complete silence. At the end, Madi takes several sips of whiskey straight from the bottle in quick succession.

Silver clears his throat and waits, but the silence continues. 

“Silver said it was his fault that you were trapped here,” Flint says. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to but...what does that mean?” 

“Oh, he made himself a threat to the wrong people, picked the wrong victim,” Madi says with thinly-veiled annoyance. “So they took what he cared most about. Me. And I’ve been stuck here since.” 

“He has a theory --”

“I know it’ll work,” Silver cuts in.

“He has a theory,” Flint repeats, unperturbed. “That if I willingly exchange places with you, then you can go free. Without becoming trapped myself.” 

Madi sips from her cup again and watches them for a while, and neither of them dares to interrupt her thoughts. This isn’t a decision that can be made lightly.

“But how would we do it?” she asks, when she finally makes her choice. “I don’t know what kind of binding was put on me. Would James simply have to say he’s willing? Would we have to do some kind of ritual? The theory is all well and good, but it’s only that.” 

“Maybe…” Silver doesn’t look so certain now, instead shrinking into his chair. “But it’s worth a try, isn’t it? Madi, you’re surrounded by books. Couldn’t we find an answer in here?” 

Madi looks around as if she hadn’t considered that and then nods, a determined look replacing the almost-lost resignation that’s been on her face since she sat down. “You’re right. We’ll need to go through the occult books.” 

And so they do, for several hours, poring over endless tomes until Silver suddenly wobbles and falls onto his ass in the middle of looking through a potentially useful book of shadows that was hidden among the books on tarot. 

His left leg has disappeared at the knee, the leg of his borrowed trousers suddenly empty. 

“Get him upstairs,” Madi says once the initial shock passes, gesturing for Flint to help her pull him back up. “He’s been out of the sea for too long.”

Flint does as she says, trying not to notice how quiet Silver suddenly is as they help him up the stairs to Madi’s small flat and put him in her bathtub. Flint starts running the water as Madi instructs, his hand hovering uncertainly over Silver’s shoulder while Madi goes to find salt to dump into the bath with him. 

“The sea takes things,” Silver says dully, staring down at his lack of a leg. “But if you belong to her, she gives them back. Sometimes. She’s fickle, you know. Go too far, stay away too long, she’ll take it away again. Remind you that you need her. The sea is a heartless bitch.” 

Flint’s hand drops to Silver’s shoulder and squeezes. “Do you know why I came here?” 

Silver shakes his head and looks up at him, a flicker of his usual curiosity returning to his gaze. “No. Madi wouldn’t tell me and I didn’t really ask, I guess…” 

“I was in love,” Flint says. “It wasn’t the sea that took him but there was nothing I could have done, really. Nothing Miranda could have done. They were married, you know. They loved each other, and they loved me. And I loved them. Love them. But I loved Thomas in such an all-encompassing way that I thought I would never recover when we lost him. It felt like the universe was out to spite me. It wasn’t, of course. We’re all so small. Even compared to the sea, Silver, we’re all so small. It’s cruel but I don’t think it’s to punish you specifically.”

Silver laughs harshly and goes back to staring at himself. “That’s easy for you to say. The sea took my fucking leg and made me live like that for years before it took the rest of me. Why should I be punished for what it did to me? You don’t know what it’s like. You can’t even imagine.”

“No, you’re right,” Flint says, rubbing his thumb gently against Silver’s shoulder. “I can’t. I suppose I just wanted to...help. I’m sorry.” 

Silver purses his lips and nods, but he doesn’t speak. 

Madi returns quickly, dumping containers of salt into the water. It takes ten minutes before Silver starts screaming, his leg starting to regrow itself in increments. It’s almost enthralling, in a visceral way. Madi reaches into the water to hold Silver’s hand through it and Flint watches them, watches the way Madi stares at Silver with open concern and care now that Silver isn’t paying attention to her. 

“What exactly did he do to get you trapped?” Flint asks again, quietly. 

“He antagonised them,” Madi says. “Killed the wrong human. Someone who was missed. So they took me, made sure he would miss me. He kills to gain a little more time on land, to be with me. It isn’t right, it isn’t what I want for him. For us. But it’s the reality of the situation.” 

“I’ll do it,” Flint says, with sudden conviction. He’s still at war with his feelings about Silver, the desire to take care of him against the desire to somehow get revenge for the months of paranoia. But Madi has been here for him since the first day he walked into her shop and asked if she had a copy of the Odyssey. They’ve shared the first peaches of the season and gotten drunk on hot summer evenings and read terrible paperback romances aloud to each other when autumn began to encroach with it’s biting winds and constant rain. He loves her. “I’ll do it, I’ll take your place.” 

Both Silver and Madi jerk their heads around to stare at him. The words seem to hover in the air between them for a moment, like they’re tangible, and then Madi gasps, as if she’s suddenly had the oxygen pulled out of her. 

“Oh. Oh, fuck,” Silver babbles, sounding so much younger than he must actually be, trying to claw his way out of the tub even though his leg is nowhere near finished growing back. “Madi?”

Madi tries to speak but nothing comes out, unable to draw in the necessary breath to speak. Her eyes are wide with panic, darting back and forth between them 

Flint does the only thing he can think of. “Silver, you’re going to have to trust me.” 

Silver barely has a second to react before Flint lifts Madi and dumps her fully-clothed into the bath with him. It doesn’t seem to help, a heavy feeling of dread settling over them all as Madi struggles in Silver’s arms, trying desperately to breathe. And then. And then she slips down in his grasp, up to her chin in the salt water, and slits appear on her neck, opening up. Gills.

Silver clutches her all the tighter as her chest starts to rise and fall again, sobbing wretchedly. “Oh god, oh Madi, oh my god.” 

“I’m a demi-god at best,” Madi manages hoarsely, and Silver cries as much as he laughs. “It worked. It actually...James, how…”

“I took a leap of faith,” Flint admits, leaning against the tub. He’s soaked through with salt water from the overflow of throwing Madi in. “It seems to have worked.” 

“Thank you,” she says warmly, but her smile flickers. “Now, to find out if you can leave. Or if you’re stuck here. I don’t want that for you.” 

“I don’t know,” Flint says, keeping his voice lighthearted. “I don’t think it would be all that bad, being surrounded by books. Miranda wouldn’t be very happy, though.” 

Madi reaches out of the tub to touch his shoulder. “I hope…”

“We’ll see,” he says softly. 

He doesn’t pull away when Silver reaches out to touch him too.

 

x. 

“I don’t know about him,” Miranda says, putting her hands on her hips as she watches Silver sprint toward a dogwalker down the beach, almost tripping over himself. “He’s a bit of a wild one, isn’t he?” 

“He’s got a...youthful spirit,” Flint agrees, trying not to grin too much at his own joke, but the look Madi shoots him says he’s doing a terrible job of it. 

“He is,” Miranda says, shaking her head. “That poor dog.” 

The dog in question doesn’t seem to mind Silver’s attention, rolling over in the sand and slobbering all over the place, much to the owner’s absolute despair. Flint thinks it might be one of the pack of black dogs that gets walked behind the lighthouse, but he hasn’t been witness to that spectacle since he started spending more time at the shop. 

“Seems happy enough,” Flint says, laughing. 

Miranda hums and turns to Madi. “Have you given any thought to visiting me in London?” 

Madi smiles, almost shy. Flint files this away as fodder to use in teasing her later. “Oh, John and I don’t like to stray too far from the coast.” 

“Norwich?” Miranda tries. “I’ve been considering moving. I’d like to be closer to James, and now I know you two, it would be even easier. I don’t think I could stand to live here, as quaint as it is. But Norwich…” 

“Norwich? Field trip?” Silver asks, flinging himself across Flint and Madi’s laps to grin up at Miranda. It’s meant to be winsome, but mostly just looks impish. 

He’s also still damp from a quick jaunt into the water after his little tumble on his way to go pet the dog, a lingering anxiety over having been on shore for some time, though probably not long enough yet for his leg to be going.

“If you can convince Madi,” Flint agrees. 

“Day trip,” is all Silver says to Madi, eyes wide and imploring. 

Madi makes a face and nudges him off her lap long enough to drape a towel over her lap, though he’s already gotten her clothes all damp. “I’ll think about it.” 

They end up bickering about it and Miranda takes the chance to lean into Flint’s side, smiling at him quietly. 

“It’s good to see you so happy,” she says softly. 

Flint leans his forehead against hers and smiles. “You look happy too.”

“I think Thomas would love them,” she adds, and Flint aches only a little at the mention of him.

He looks down at Silver, hair loose and drying wild after a day on the windy beach, and Madi, who’s only ruffled because Silver keeps throwing himself at her. And he finds he has to agree. 

“He would. And it would be insufferable.” 

Miranda laughs, and Flint thinks it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard.


End file.
